Behind the Mask
by HalloweenSpell
Summary: He haunts the shadows and relives the lies that spread like hell fire, she is from the streets, hiding secrets no-one else could bear. Set after Christine and Raoul happened. Will create a better summary, for am not very good at them... - Phantom/OC
1. Prologue

Prologue

Three months had passed since the event in the opera house; everyone thought the phantom of the opera to be dead, and those who didn't thought he had simply vanished, disappeared to find somewhere else to roam. Both parties were wrong, and were back to planning a big event to perform to an audience of an immense scale and high up the social ranking. The phantom smiled, his mask glowing softly in the candle light, he would return to their nightmares. Yet he still felt the ache in his heart, it had been three months since she had left him, he wished she would return but also wanted her to leave his mind. He looked around at his reformed lair, his organ remained, along with his instruments, but all traces of her had gone, burnt and the remains thrown into the river. All the mirrors were gone also, replaced with a handcrafted model of the stage and all the cast, stagehands and musicians. He picked up a figurine of the leading female singer, let them forget him, and then he would slowly pick them off. He would give them a month; after all, he needed time to form a plan, that no-one else could think up. A sigh startled him, who was here? After glancing around, he realised it had been him, who had sighed in exasperation. What had he been thinking, no-one would be able to navigate his labyrinth, ever since that horrendous event three months back, he had created more traps, to inflict more pain upon those stupid enough to try and find him.

His gaze was drawn to the violin propped against the wall, on a shelf, next to a stack of drawing and a red rose wrapped in a black ribboned bow. Only music could heal the heart that had been ripped from his chest, and then trampled into the dust as though a rag. Picking up the instrument, a tune spilled from the intricate silver strings, like threads of a spider's web. This instrument was as glossy as new conker, with intricate notes carved along the lower bout. Like the others used in the opera, he made this instrument himself, yet this was his most favoured. The song seemed to flow as smoothly as the water in the glassy lake, filled with sadness; his life story. Ending with a dark plummet of revenge the Opera Ghost contemplated on what was going to happen now. For no-one cared about what would happen to him, he was going to remain down here for as long as he lived and breathed.

This stray thought caused a quick flash of sadness to shine behind his eyes. The moment was as fleeting as lightning lighting up the sky, powerful but quickly vanquished by the dark clouds in his soul. Lifting a hand to the stark white mask memories raced through his mind, as painful as salt on a fresh wound. He felt the breath leave him, as though someone was strangling him, the way he had done to others. All he could picture was her, Christine, his angel. Eyes full of love as she gazed at Raoul, the idiotic boy; the one who had stolen her away.

If only she could have seen that he would have given her anything, would have been anything for her.

Yet once again, the world turned a cold shoulder to the one thing that brought a speck of light to his world of shadows. She was like a lost firefly in the night. Not really sure what she was doing, yet too afraid to turn back. She had been his everything, a voice like spun silk, only fit to be worn by angels of music. He pictured her voice, sweet as honey as it enveloped his very soul. She had been his little piece of heaven in his world of demons and hell fire.

As briefly as it had come, the memory slowly faded, like stars in the morning light. All traces of emotion faded from the face, as though the emotions painted on had been wiped off, becoming a living mask; a blank canvas. Emotion was for the weak, he; the phantom was anything but that, weak was for his victims. The Punjab lasso sat waiting to extinguish lives as easy as blowing out the flame of a candle. One month to plan, then the fear could once again return, he would be the master to all of those who tried to conquer his opera, his palace. At that he smiled, picking up the rose and smelling the faint sweetness of the petals. One fell from the bud, and he let out a soft cry, why did the rose have to die so quickly, he tried to return it, but two more spiralled down to meet with cold stone. They looked like two drops of blood. The blood that would soon once again, be staining his reputation and his hands.

Mirroring his hatred of the world, Wolves howled through the streets, kicking up dust in the faces of those bold enough to venture outside, clawing at the windows; trying to get inside. Smears of murky grey and grotesque yellows stained the sky. Gloomy smears bulged on the horizon, filled with the devilish promise of a storm to be reckoned with. Shadows capered freely on the streets, twisting into creatures found only in the darkest corners of the mind. Despite the havoc being wrecked above him, the Phantom stood in an eerie silence.

Turning on his heel, a door slammed behind him as he strode along the passages, darkness clinging to the corners of his cloak. Thunder deafened the opera house. The grave faces of the storms cried down a thick curtain of tears as the storm broke forth, sending a flurry of wind and rain down in torrents onto the murky streets below.

What defences they may have installed, what lies may have been told, the Opera Ghost is alive and those who ever opposed him are about to have their world ripped to pieces. A world of plans written using the blood from murders in cold blood, scarlet ink staining the future of those in the Opera populaire. Let them try to pretend and try to build up a wall of defences against his wrath. They will watch with frightened eyes as their walls crumble down, releasing a flood of fury upon them all.

Lightning flashed once, making the world a startling place of white and black. As contrasting as ink and paper. Although it is gone in a moment; it is forever in the mind. Like an idea for revenge, lighting up a steely glare holding the warmth of ice in a storm. A chilly glare, an icy smile; _let them lie_, he thought, _for they will pay_.

With that final thought, another flash lit up the room. The Opera Ghost had vanished; it was as if no-one had even been there. Only the rose on the floor signified any activity. As red as the enflamed hatred in the Phantom's heart, yet the crumpled petals and broken stem hinted at defeat, whilst the Phantom was anything but defeated. He was fighting.

~O~

**Hi... I had a serious writer's block with my previous story, At Firs Sight. Also, no-one seemed to like the story as nothing was given to indicate any reaction. So have turned to another story which has been in my mind for a while. I REALLY hope you like it! Please, please, please R&R... Thanks x**


	2. Chapter 1

**Thank you Phantasma'sRose, Forever Alone3, fall12fall, grandma paula and RedDeathLvr for reviewing my first chapter. :') They made me so happy that I have spent a while writing you all a brand new chapter to read! I really hope you enjoy this, as me get to meet our new OC! I really hope you enjoy! H.S xx**

Chapter one

The sleepy rays of early dawn light illuminated the heavy fog which enveloped the city like a blanket made of silver lined clouds. Puddles of golden liquid sunshine lay scattered on the cobblestones; hidden treasures of the world. Larks were starting to rouse from their pleasurable slumber, as faint rays of the sun peeked through the sulky storm clouds, hiding the cheery glow like dense curtains. Lonely drops of water trailed down the window panes of large houses, dragging their heels behind them. None of the actors were yet awake, still blissfully unaware of the waking world, as they indulged themselves in worlds of the unnatural. As they slept, dust collected on the shelves and the bed sheets grew stony as the bed pan's life began to slowly fade away, hand in hand with the vanishing night sky. The silence that comes with that moment when the living in the day before was gone, and the living in the present is born.

A petite figure softly treaded through the fog towards the opera house, as though one false move would crack the silence into unlucky shards like a mirror. Her feet delicately splashed through the puddles, as the ripples raced away from her bare feet and toes. The cobblestones were as slick as pebbles in a river bed, making her slip and stumble like a young foal finding its legs. As if this was not bad enough, the steps before the opera were tall and stately, whilst small rivulets trickled down the glossy marble. Despite this, she was somehow able to clamber up the entrance stairs; ready to break the silence.

The faint rapping of a delicate hand on the weary oak wood door echoed softly down hollow corridors. For but a moment, no-one stirred.

After a moment's hesitation, Madame Giry floated down the corridors in a dress the colour of rich wine; swirling around her ankles as if made from burgundy water. A dark figure watched from above the prying eyes of passers-by; narrowed eyes bursting with wonder about who might be knocking at the start of this new day. He wondered if an actor had been locked outside by Carlotta; renowned for her cruel pranks on those deemed a threat to her already deteriorating career. Neither he nor the Madame was expecting to find a girl, trembling and soaked to the skin, standing on the steps.

The first thought which came to his mind was how small she was, for she looked as though if you squeezed her to hard, she would break. Her soft hands clasped together timidly, delicate fingers interwoven together. She was so little; yet gave the impression of being a ballet dancer due to her elegant, dainty frame, like that of a swan. Madame Giry seemed more worried about the state she seemed to be in. For her hair was sopping wet, causing it to cling to her back, allowing water to stream into the ripped, muddy fabric of her simple dress. She looked extremely cold, shivering in a puddle of icy water, whilst inside, the corridor was cosy and warm. "How can I help you? Please can you hurry, as rehearsals are about to begin on the centre stage." Madame Giry asked impatiently; she was eager to return to her viewing position. The girl blinked in response, an insecure whisper swirled through the air. "P-p-please Madame, c-c-could I p-possibly ap-p-ply for a j-job a-as a stage h-hand here?" The Phantom's eyes narrowed to mere slits, as warm a puddle of ice in a winter blizzard. Yet the Madame gasped in shock and swiftly dragged the girl inside.

"You really want to work here? Are you sure?" The girl nodded her head shyly, clasping her hands behind her back. He wondered why she would want a job here, at one of the most feared places in the world. However, the Madame took her to an empty room, closing the door sharply behind her, leaving the phantom to ponder his thoughts over. Echoes of their retreating footsteps bounced around the hallway, the polished pine floor was now tarnished with the grimy footprints of the girl, an eyesore that needed removing. The footprints would not be the only thing which would need to go. The painting of an elderly woman seemed to glare up at him, as though she could read his very thoughts and found them distasteful. The painting was pale, with a lot of the same pearly blue, suiting the hair on the fierce, wrinkled face. The phantom twisted his lips into a menacing smile, what could that painting do to stop him, the girl needed to go, and her removal would once again, bring terror to the opera.

*X*X*X*

Words failed me when the Madame accepted my offer to work in the Opera. I just could not believe my ears when she asked me if I was sure if I wanted the job. Why wouldn't I? The Opera populaire is one of the grandest places in all of Paris, with the golden statues and luxuriously thick burgundy curtains, who could resist such a place? Although I did feel immensely small and pathetic next to the splendour of this building, I cannot believe that this place is to be my new home. Home. That is a word which I haven't used in forever; it means a place where you can feel safe. Compared to everywhere else I have been, I think this is the safest I can ever hope to feel. Worthless or not.

After the Madame questioned me about my choice in working here, I was dragged off down numerous corridors to my new room. I tried to memorise the number of steps and turns, but the numbers began to run together like spilled ink, making me feel as though I had been sat on a carrousel with my eyes tight shut. The corridor where my room is as far from grand as Paris is from Rome. Though given my position in life compared to the stars in the Opera, I do not deserve to complain, for these corridors are above me. For if I put in a little elbow grease through a thorough clean of the floor and some dusting on the windows, the grime which has layered itself onto the once grand face of this corridor, has turned it into a slight eye sore.

Yet even as we briskly walked beneath simple lights, which had become chandeliers made of spider silk and dusty jewels of dew from the intrusion of mould in a corner, I did not fail to notice the traces of a forgotten grandeur. Candelabras stood in shadowy corners, hidden beneath stacks of portraits encrusted with filth and useless props not worth placing in the props room. If I have the time, maybe I could bring back the seemingly forgotten elegance hidden inside the walls of this simple corridor.

The door of my new bedroom was made from a dark pine, smooth to the touch, yet stuck fast if not shut properly. The Madame dragged me inside by the arm which she held in an iron grip, before standing me before her. "Before I give you your schedule, I feel as though we should introduce ourselves. I am Madame Giry, I am the head of the dance department and should you have any problems, you must come to me. Is that understood?" My tongue feels like a stone inside my mouth, trapping any words which I can think of inside, so I silently nod my head in acknowledgement instead. "You must be awake and ready to work before six in the morning; lord must help you if you fail this requirement." Maybe it was the morbid look plastered on my face or possibly my dishevelled appearance, for her eyes softened slightly. "Don't worry, you will adapt well to the schedule of your new life here. Your bed is by the window and that screen conceals the bathroom, you should be able to find your way here I presume?" On that note, she turned to leave, yet just as the door began to sluggishly swing shut; her voice pierced the air once more. "I presume you have a name, what is it might I ask?" Her eyes as keen as a hawk's, stared for agonizing moments, as I licked my lips, trying to form the words I needed. "My name is Octavia Madame." With that, the door banged shut.

It was then that I was able to fully look at my new room. To many people my room would probably seem basic and simple. To me, it was luxury. The floor was made of basic matting, the colour of young birch trees, which looked pretty in a natural way; despite being partially worn in patches. My eyes travelled to the walls which hung with a simple design of gently blushing blossoms from a tulip tree. A simple white bed rested against the farthest wall, the floral pillow sleeping beneath the window like a well fed pussy cat. The window was rather large, with faded creamy muslin curtains hanging from the lofty pole above; framing the breath-taking view of thousands of roofs of every shade of colour bathed in clear morning light. Next to the bed was a basic pale wardrobe, the handles encased with dust whilst the racks hanging worryingly bear.

On my right was a small bookshelf, still waiting to carry books of my choosing; a washed-out pale wicker chair sat nearby adorned with a frayed plush rose coloured pillow. The back of the chair leant against a white wooden screen decorated in faded periwinkle birds, hiding the chipped metal bath, toilet and sink from prying eyes. Tiptoeing over to the chair, I let myself sink into the pillow. Despite being lumpy in places, I was oddly comfortable. Closing my eyes, I let myself sigh in contentment; allowing myself to sink into a state of pure bliss.

The icy water weighing down my dress was starting to numb my body and bones to the core. I gave an almost inaudible groan at the idea of a hot bath. An immense wave of pleasure encased my being when I felt the intense heat of the bath water splash onto my hands. Sending ripples of pins and needles up my arms, yet I could not bring myself to care about such trivial sacrifices of my arm's well-being.

Once the bath was brimming with steaming water, I was able to discard my wintry garment and sink into the boiling water's burning embrace. Maybe it was the lulling warmth or the peaceful state my mind was in, but before I knew it, darkness enveloped my senses.

_The graveyard was eerily silent; crows sat in the trees like shadows whilst a fog swirled ominously at my ankles. All the graves stood tall and erect like soldiers waiting to march, medals adorning the place where they stood in the form of flowers, both fresh and decaying. Mud squelched up beneath her bare toes, sticking to the soles and making movement nearly impossible. My feet were on a mission of their own accord, nothing I could do would stop the direction of their motion, for a fleeting moment I considered myself to be possessed. It seemed ridiculous, until the graves began to fade into the distance, leaving me alone with the fog; then the notion became terrifying. I wanted to cry out for help, but couldn't find the air to do so. An invisible hand seemed to be clamped on my throat, keeping me isolated from even my own voice. Then, as though sensing my loneliness, a single grave loomed up from the gloom. Something in my mind told me not to look, to not see what was written on the crumbling stone, but my feet refused to obey my wish to stay away. I tried to stare into the fog, but some unseen force drew my eyes to the clumsily written words engraved into this grave. 'Carissa Norseth', it said 'died 1871, cause of death: unknown.' "This is wrong!" I managed to choke out. "I am still alive, the year is wrong, I am living flesh!" As though to prove my point; I held my hand up for inspection. Then to my silent horror, my hand began to disintegrate, as though it were mist when touched by the sun's rays. Without a sound, the world smeared away, like someone had chucked water over a canvas of grey paint, smearing everything into darkness. This new darkness sat frostily upon my chest, smothering my screams as they became unearthly loud, yet I was not the one screaming._

My eyes flew open; I was sat in a bath. My bath. It was just a dream, a nightmare to be precise. Now the water was cold, forcing me to get up and change into a flimsy looking nightgown and climbing into my ice cold bed. The only warmth I could feel was from the salty tears that ran races down my cheeks as I cried myself to sleep.

**So... O_O what did you think? Please read and review! They mean so much to me! :D xx Bye! x**


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